


Eyes that shine burning red

by salvabon



Category: The Lone Gunmen (TV), The X-Files
Genre: Amnesia, Blood and Gore, Gen, Heavy Angst, Horror, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rabies, Werewolves, lycanthropy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvabon/pseuds/salvabon
Summary: John Byers wakes up covered in blood in a hotel room and with no memory of what happened. The only person he can think to ask for help is Dana Scully.Or: Hey, have you watched 4x23 "Demons" and thought "I liked it, but I wish it was certified cinnamon roll Byers instead but also just way worse?"
Relationships: John Byers & Dana Scully, John Byers & Melvin Frohike & Richard "Ringo" Langly
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toboldlygohoweverimprobable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toboldlygohoweverimprobable/gifts), [FlannelGuy51](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlannelGuy51/gifts).



> I apologize in advance for making Byers suffer like this. I blame Órla and Jack for enabling me. 
> 
> CW for blood, gore, emetophobia

John Fitzgerald Byers wakes from the sensation that he is falling, a weird trick he knows his brain plays on him from time to time. At least he knows this when he is awake. His unconscious mind can do nothing against the sudden jolt, and he rolls over and reaches for the alarm clock on his night stand on his right out of instinct just to find nothing there, not even a night stand. The momentum has him crash to the floor in an undignified manner as he comes to slowly. He has a headache, pounding against the back of his skull. It is the first thing he notices.   
He isn’t in his bedroom. He doesn’t know quite yet where he is, but it isn’t his bedroom. His bedroom has a small night stand on the right and none of that thick beige carpet. The blinds are half drawn, and it seems to be in the early morning hours, although he has no way to judge how early and no clock can be seen anywhere.   
His pulse is elevated, and he is still breathing heavily, as if he ran a mile in his sleep. There is the distinct impression that he had a terrible nightmare. He cannot remember it of course, he couldn’t even remember where he was currently or how he got there. He is wearing one of his suits. The sleeve is torn off on one of the sides and there is dirt all over it and stains that it is still too dark for to make out. He feels sticky.   
He slowly moves into a more comfortable position, still on the floor but at least sitting upright, and finds the cause of part of his discomfort by taking a look at his hands. His hands are several shades darker with a thick liquid coating almost every inch of them. It is already dry and flaky on his joints and knuckles, while his palms are almost dripping wet. The headache and confusion makes him slow, and it takes him entirely too long to realize that it is blood he is looking at. The lighting in the room makes the blood seem almost black and for a second he thinks about the black oil Mulder and Scully investigated. But it is blood. The smell of it is unmistakable. Something in his field of vision moves and Byers looks up just to find himself looking in a full length mirror, positioned at the other end of the room. He sees himself sitting there, propped up against the bed he just fell out of. His chest rises and falls with shaky, uncoordinated breaths. There is blood everywhere. His hands, his suit, his mouth. Thin layers of dried blood flake off his nose and cheeks. It takes this moment for him to notice the taste in his mouth, the wetness on his tongue. Blood drips down his lips as he opens them slowly, carefully.   
With a sudden violent motion forward he hurls. He does not know how long he is sitting there on his hands and knees, his headache violently splitting open his mind as his entire stomach contents make it onto a carpet. For a while he just dry heaves as spasms roll over his body. He tries to not look at the puddle in front of him when he finally comes back to senses. It is mostly red, with large unidentifiable chunks. He gets up slowly, supporting himself on the bed frame, which stains red with the remains of blood from his hands. His legs are a little shaky and his muscles ache. One or two more spasms overcome him, causing him to heave again. His throat hurts, but he cannot tell whether that comes from throwing up or if it was a pre-existing problem he had been too disorientated to notice. Awareness of his body and surroundings slowly return. He is aware his throat should be dry but with every cough or retching he feels a gurgling in the back of his throat, and he feels saliva, light red from the blood in his mouth, forming in his mouth.   
With careful steps he moves around the bed and towards the mirror. With every minute it is getting lighter in the room, and he can see his bloodshot eyes staring back at him. There is something off about them, something he can’t explain. He raises a hand and waves at his own mirror image. John Byers knows that this is silly, he knows that there is nothing else to expect than to see his reflection wave back, but it grounds him, if merely for a second. Because if this is really him, the empty eyes and the blood and the torn clothes, then he is in big trouble. Because he is pretty sure that this isn’t his own blood.


	2. Chapter 2

There is a phone on the wall - he must be in a hotel or motel somewhere - and he thinks about calling Frohike and Langly, his colleagues and friends. But to do what exactly? Have them pick him up? Langly can’t see blood and there was a voice at the back of his head telling him that they couldn’t see him like that. Not now, not like this. Before he can even continue this thought he feels himself picking up the phone and dialling in a number from memory.  
“Agent Scully,” he hears himself say as he hears the other line picking up the call. “This is John Byers. I need you help.”   
“Byers?” Scully asks, the questioning voice trailing off tiredly.   
“Do you even know what time it is?”   
“No, but it is very important, Agent Scully-” “  
He hears a yawn at the other end of the line. What was he calling about? What should he tell her? What if she called the police?   
“There is so much blood...”   
His voice feels to come from somewhere other than his mouth, as if he spoke from the very back of his throat. As if he just heard himself speak and not done it himself.   
He hears something make a noise on the other end of the line, probably Scully sitting up.   
“Byers, can you tell me where you are? Are you hurt?”   
He shakes his head out of instinct and murmurs a “no”. A flyer next to the telephone finally gives him an answer - “George Washington Motel, Silver Spring, Maryland. I’m not sure, I don’t think, I.. I am scared, Scully.”  
Another noise at the end of the line, then an answer: “Stay where you are, I am coming over. Do you want me to call Mulder or Frohike and Langly?”  
“Please don’t. Please don’t tell them.”   
He doesn’t explain it, but he feels she understands him. Byers can feel another wave of nausea build up and his knees buckle, but he doesn’t throw up this time.   
“While I am getting ready, you need to answer a couple of questions, okay? Can you tell me what happened?”   
“No.” It is the truth, Byers realizes bitterly. He cannot remember the last night, he doesn’t even know what date it is, which is Scully’s next question.   
“Do you have any visible cuts or bruises or any acute pain?”  
“None that I can see. But I have a headache and my circulation could be better.”  
“Here is what I want you to do,” Scully says. “I want you to tell me which room you are in, and then I want you to lay down with your legs raised higher than your heart. I will be there in no time.”


	3. Chapter 3

It feels like an eternity until Scully arrives, but Byers guesses that she had been right and that it had been no time. She knocks like she does when she visits their headquarters, and he gets up slowly to open the door for her. Scully looks at him with worry and medical calculation. He lets her in, avoiding her gaze, standing at the door nervously rubbing his hands. They are mostly dry now but still stained red. He hasn’t washed them. He hasn’t dared to. As much as he was repulsed by the blood he needed the proof that all of this was real, that he didn’t just call Scully out to a motel in the middle of nowhere for nothing.  
“Byers-” She begins to say but neither of them can bring themselves to finish the sentence. She places a duffel bag down on a clean spot on the floor and opens it before carefully guiding Byers to sit down on the bed.   
“I need you to take off the suit,” she says as she gets out a pair of gloves and assorted medical equipment. He complies mindlessly, first losing the tie, then peeling out of the ruined jacket. By the end he is just sitting there in his underwear, which is thankfully slightly less bloodstained. Scully is gentle with him as she checks his pupil reflexes, cleans his face and hands of the blood and inspects him for any external or internal injuries. He notices acutely that she takes small samples of blood, vomit and fibre.   
“I can’t see any reason why the blood should be yours, Byers,” she says with equal parts worry and relief.   
“What are the last things you remember?”   
Byers thinks. He thinks hard.  
“I was with my friends, in Takoma Park. I was feeling antsy. I can’t tell you why. We have been fighting a lot lately, for no reason at all. I think it’s my fault, my temper is short lately. I haven’t been sleeping very well. I get these nightmares. I never can remember them, I just wake up knowing I had a terrible nightmare, you know?” He smiles nervously, still avoiding her look. “ I decided to go for a walk, it was just after dinner, so it wasn’t too late and the sun sets so late in the summer. I don’t know how long I was out, I don’t really remember anything else. I think I remember it getting dark though. Full moon, right?”   
Scully nods.   
“And then you woke up here?”   
“And then I woke up here.”   
Scully pulls up one of the chairs on the other end of the room and sits down.   
“I can’t tell you what happened here, but I am pretty worried. Do you mind if I analyse these samples? I won’t tell anyone about this, of course.”  
Byers cannot do anything but agree. It it the right thing to do. He needs to know whose blood this was. He needs to know if he did something horrible.   
“Now we need to get this room cleaned up, and you to drink and eat something to get your circulation going.”   
Scully gives him a bottle of water and a chocolate bar, which he accepts gratefully. The water makes him temporarily cough and retch again, but at least it gets rid of the terrible taste in his mouth. He eats the chocolate bar slowly, bite by microscopic bite. A coppery aftertaste remains that does not go well with the chocolate at all and Byers at this moment longs for a toothbrush or some breath mints.   
Scully in the meanwhile cleans the room skilfully of all bloodstains and vomit. She does not seem to even notice anything extraordinary about it, or anything gross. Byers knows that she probably deals with a million worse things each day, yet he feels guilty about her doing all the hard work.   
“Are you sure you don’t want me to help you?” He asks at least three times. Scully tells him to be still and eat another chocolate bar.   
“You shouldn’t put any strain on your body right now, in case you have any internal injuries I missed” she explains to him. He knows that of course, but he feels guilty nonetheless.   
Byers takes a mental note to never piss off Scully because after a couple of minutes the room is completely wiped off evidence, as if he had never been there.  
“We are going to go straight to my car now.”   
Byers puts on his trousers and white shirt again, letting Scully stuff his jacket and tie into the duffel bag. Hopefully to be destroyed.  
“And I will drive you home. I want you to rest and call me immediately if you have any worsening symptoms, you understand, Byers?”   
He nods. Once again, he feels slightly distant from everything. He doesn’t feel as dizzy as last time, but he feels removed, somehow. He is there, in this motel room, listening to Scully, but he isn’t completely. A part of his brain is waiting to wake up any second and lose the memory of this ever happening, just another nightmare he can’t recall. He feels bad for not paying for the motel room, but they can’t just waltz into the reception like that. He doesn’t even know if he ever booked this room.   
The drive home is silent. Scully turns on the radio in an effort to normalize the situation, at least that’s what Byers thinks she is doing.   
“Thank you,” is the first thing Byers says when they park in front of the Lone Gunmen HQ.   
She turns to him, a smile on her lips. She cannot hide the worry in her eyes though.   
“Mulder’s friends are also my friends, you know that,” she quips.   
“I will analyse these samples for you, and I am sure there is a perfectly logical explanation for all this. Greet Langly and Frohike from me and take some rest.”   
She walks him to the door and pats him on the shoulder, before turning around to her car.


	4. Chapter 4

Byers stands there for another minute or so before entering his home and workplace.   
“Dude, where were you?” Langly greets him and looks him up and down once. “And where is your suit?”   
“Don’t even ask,” he mumbles as he burrows his face into his hands. Frohike enters with some film cans, probably something to do with their latest case.  
“You’re looking pretty rough buddy, are you sure you’re okay? We were pretty worried for you yesterday.” “Yeah, you just stormed right off. And why does your beard look so weird?”   
Byers feels close to tears. But he doesn’t want to cry, not right now. What he wants is to be left alone and shower.   
“Don’t worry about it, guys, I just needed some distance and I think I might have drank a bit too much.”  
This gets an understanding nod from both of them. Byers goes straight to his room to pick out a new outfit for the day. He showers too long and too hot, as long as it needs for the mirror to fog up completely and his skin turn red, and he is sure he feels clean again. The mirror is still fogged up when he is dressed. He doesn’t want to see his face again, the same face that greeted him this morning smeared with blood. He doesn’t want to see his own eyes. He cannot shake the feeling that there was something wrong with them this morning. They were too blank, too cold. No, he thinks. They were too alive, the eyes of a rabid animal. And then he thinks: both. Behind his blue eyes he had felt a frenzy clawing to break free from behind his calm stare. He does not want to think about it. He can’t think about it. A vague feeling washes over him, nausea coupled with... with what exactly? The closest he could describe it was the feeling he had each morning when he woke up from his nightmares.   
Byers' stomach rumbles, and he is grateful to not be living alone because as he leaves the bathroom the signature smell of bacon and eggs wafts through the rooms.  
“I thought you could use some hangover cure by yours truly,” Frohike says as he serves him a hearty breakfast.   
“I am sorry for yesterday evening.”  
His two friends just wave it away. “It’s okay, we’re all just a little burned out,” Langly says. “That gig with the smuggler ring really knocked us out, man.”  
Byers is too tired to argue and just digs right into his food. At first, he finds it difficult to eat but with every bite his vigour returns, which he gathers might be connected to the salty bacon finally getting rid of the rest of the aftertaste of blood.  
“I think I need to get some more sleep,” Byers says as he excuses himself from the table. His friends don’t argue, but he sees them exchange worried looks before he turns around.   
He falls onto his bed and fast asleep before he even hits the pillow. As usual, he wakes up slightly out of breath and with a jerk. There is a wet spot on his pillow, but luckily it is only saliva and not more blood. He tries to hold on to the last images of his dream but like sand running through open hands it is futile. There is the distinct impression of blood and of being watched, stalked even, by something faster and stronger than him. The feeling of the prey knowing that the beast’s eyes have locked on it, the knowledge of the inevitable outcome of the chase. And with horror Byers realizes that in this scenario he is the beast.


	5. Chapter 5

When he looks at his alarm clock it is early afternoon and, while he feels slightly better and the headache has mostly disappeared, he only joins the others with some difficulty.  
“Good afternoon, sleepyhead. Agent Scully just called, wouldn’t tell us what it’s about but told us to call her back urgently.”  
Byers grabs the house telephone and dials the agent’s number for the second time this day. His legs still feel sore, and he sits down while he waits for Scully to pick up.   
“Byers? Is this line secure?”   
Byers laughs, for the first time today: “Agent Scully, you know us.”  
“I am not entirely finished with the analysis, but I can definitely say that the blood isn’t yours. It’s animal blood, deer blood to be precise. The stomach contents as well show raw and largely undigested deer meat and fur particles. Byers, are you sure you can’t remember anything?”  
Byers is glad At this moment that he is already sitting.   
“I can’t remember a thing, I..” he does not continue his train of thought. “A deer?”   
“Yes. I contacted the park authorities between Takoma Park and Silver Spring to see if anyone found a deer carcass or has seen anything unusual but Byers, I don’t think you are capable of just killing and eating such an animal, let alone raw. There has to be an explanation.”  
Byers lets his head fall into this lap, telephone at his ear. He is nauseous again. He knows he should drink something and take some medicine but the thought of it just turns his stomach again.   
“Byers,” Scully begins, caution in her voice and fear. “Have you recently been bitten by any animals? Especially dogs or bats?”  
“Do you think it's rabies?”  
Scully sighs: “the lyssavirus is known to cause some _severe_ symptoms.”  
“I haven’t been bitten by any animals, Scully. We recently exposed a smuggler ring dealing with exotic breeds but none of the animals seemed rabid, and they certainly didn’t bite me.”  
“Can I draw some blood anyway? Just to be sure? Sometimes people get infected through saliva.”  
“If it is-” he can’t bring himself to say the word out loud again. “Then it is already too late for me. Survival rate after onset of symptoms is zero, I know that too, Scully. But you can come here and test me.”  
They disconnect the call, both a little on the edge, understandably.   
“And?” Langly asks as Byers joins the others in their various tasks. “What did she want? You know, we haven’t seen the two in ages.”   
“It’s your lucky day then,” Byers quips. “Because Agent Scully is on her way here.”  
“Just Scully?” Frohike asks. Byers nods.


	6. Chapter 6

Byers is only vaguely aware of everything that is happening around him. He feels the prick of the needle, nothing he isn’t used to, and feels the distinct sensation of blood slowly bubbling into the syringe. He doesn’t know how much blood is being drawn until he looks up and sees three little bottles filled. Scully explains something about samples and labs and equipment, and he isn’t listening at all, just staring at the wall. They tried to find a quiet spot in the building, somewhere where the other two wouldn’t bee too aware of what was happening. They are unsuccessful, as Frohike barges in anyways.  
“Tell your man that he still owes us pizza money.”   
“He is not my man,” Scully rolls her eyes but smiles.   
“I would call him your better half but-” Frohike stops talking when Scully throws a little cotton ball at him. She hands one to Byers and tells him to press it on his arm for a minute or two.   
Byers sees Frohike look at the medical equipment, but he doesn’t say anything. They had all in the past asked Scully for help with medical problems when they couldn’t afford their medical bills otherwise. The newspaper wasn’t exactly making enough money for insurance.   
His friend does not leave before giving them a few apple slices and some water, both of which they gladly take.   
“I am really not a microbiologist, but I should be able to analyse this for you. Otherwise, I can send this to a friend working in one of our labs, but that would take one or two days more.”  
Byers nods and bites into an apple slice. He is anything but hungry but this is better than acknowledging the conversation they are having.   
“You said you were exposed to exotic species and there are many animals that can carry a variety of lyssaviruses. I think the best way to deal with this is through pyrosequencing instead of a fluorescent antibody test. I read a study recently that - Byers”   
“Hm?”   
Byers looks up. He doesn’t remember what he had been looking at, probably the floor.   
“By now you usually discuss scientific methods with me or compare studies.”  
Byers sighs, but it comes out in the back of his throat, more a growl than anything else.   
“With all due respect, I am really not in the mood for talking right now, Agent Scully. Could you please just check my blood for rabies and tell me if I am going to die or not.”   
Scully doesn’t answer and gets right to work and Byers feels the blood rushing to his face. He feels awful. He wants to apologize, but he also wants to make no sound at all for the rest of the day, so he just sits there, eating apple slices. His heart is beating out of his chest, and he feels slightly too warm. Maybe he is developing a fever. Maybe this is the beginning of the end. Maybe it is already too late. Byers might not be a doctor, but he is knowledgeable about a wide variety of things, including rabies. The voice of his father rings in his head: “Jack of all trades, master of none.” That’s what he had told him when he had taken as many different science classes in college as he was allowed to, from computer science to quantum physics. His father, he thinks bitterly. He hasn’t seen him in years, and he isn’t sure what is the more awful thought: dying of rabies without seeing him one more time or dying of rabies after being berated for his terrible life decisions by him one last time.   
The analysis doesn’t take as long as he thought it would but still much longer than he has the patience for. Half of the equipment they had found in various parts of the headquarters, the other half had been borrowed from the FBI labs. Scully claims that no one would notice.   
“Huh?” is the first things Scully says since Byers’ rather harsh reaction. He jerks up, finding his hands red from repeatedly rubbing them and pinching them with his finger nails, even scratching open a few spots. It is an old nervous habit, another thing his father had always disapproved of greatly.   
“What?”   
Scully is bent over a microscope, one of the different tools she had been switching back and forth between.   
“The good news is that I couldn’t identify any of the 11 RRVs I tested for, but you should take a look at this.”   
Scully points at the stage of the microscope, where a small slide with Byers’ blood is fastened. Byers gets up a little too quickly and sees a million different colours dance before his eyes for a hot second. He is dizzy. It isn’t rabies. If Scully says it isn’t rabies, then it can’t be. She would know. It takes him a few seconds to adjust to the view in the microscope.   
“What exactly am I looking at?”  
“I don’t know.”  
Byers looks up again in disbelief. He was used to Mulder visiting them asking for their expertise. But he had never seen Scully, who had a background in medicine and physics plus years of experience in the FBI both in the field and autopsies, blank on a scientific issue like this.   
“There is _something_ in your body, Byers. It isn’t any kind of lyssavirus, or at least not one known to science. I can’t even tell with certainty that it is a _virus_. If you look at this,” Scully changes a setting on the fine adjustment, giving Byers a slightly different picture of his blood sample.   
“This doesn’t belong in your body. The glycoprotein spikes you can see here are similar to those found in RRVs but when I try to pyrosequence it, it just stops making sense.”   
Byers sinks back into his seat. The image he just saw is burned into the back of his head. Byers has learned to use microscopes in college, he has used them many more times in his job than he ever thought he would. But there is something unexplainable about looking at your own blood, seeing the workings of it up close, and then see something in there that is going wrong.   
“What does this mean, Scully? Am I dying or am I not dying?”   
“I-” Scully chokes back a tear. “I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for not knowing anything about science. I tried to read a journal article on pyrosequencing and didn't understand one word so kudos to Órla for explaining the concept to me.   
> I probably did more research than the X-Files writers though, so you just have to live with that.   
> Kudos, comments, and scientific education are welcome though.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this scream at me until I finish it. Feel free to leave kudos and comments :)


End file.
